


And Your Words, Engraved (to be remembered)

by Itar94



Series: The Thousandth Universe [a Building Neutron Stars au] [1]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe of an Alternate Universe, Angst, Atlantis, Character Death, Earth, Episode: s01e19 The Siege (1), Episode: s01e20 The Siege (2), Episode: s02e01 The Siege (3), Fictional medical drugs, Implied/Referenced Abortion, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Omega John Sheppard, Secret Relationship, Suicide Attempt, mentions of mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-21
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-16 12:02:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1346752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itar94/pseuds/Itar94
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is an infinite number of possible parallel universes. In some, Captain Lyle Holland doesn’t die in Afghanistan.<br/>(Life is much like a dice. Again and again it is set in motion and a random side falls up and sometimes the best side is down. And then, finally, it is a game that ends and the hand that has been casting it grows still.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [[interlude] Aurora](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1005371) by [Itar94](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itar94/pseuds/Itar94). 



> (Please read this note.) This is an AU of an AU, which makes it a bit complicated. It's a spin-off of the series [Building Neutron Stars](http://archiveofourown.org/series/52623), which basically deals with an alpha/beta/omega society within the Stargate universe. So while the plots in BNS don't really matter in this one it is a lot easier to understand this fic if you read some of that other series first - in [Flying a Ship with Silver Lining](http://archiveofourown.org/works/909110/chapters/1760649) a lot is explained about the alpha/beta/omega dynamics which also applies in this fic.  
> This story began as a spin-off of the interlude/backstory [Aurora](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1005371) (part 8 in the BNS 'verse), and I just couldn't let the idea go when it came to me. So, here we are.  
>  _Please read the tags and the warnings!_ Some content could be triggering.

There is an infinite number of possible parallel universes. In some, Captain Lyle Holland doesn’t die in Afghanistan. And in one of those, John goes after the downed chopper anyway.

* * *

The chopper crashes outside Kabul under a hail of gunfire and the wind is harsh and red. Holland crawls out of the debris breathing and relatively whole and tries get a message back to base. It’s a bunch of fragmented words but they’ve got a status and location and Dex isn’t dead yet but dying, and for Mitch it’s almost too late. And John doesn’t hesitate, orders be damned.

Sand and dust swirls around him limiting his vision but the Taliban miss every time (a chance in a million, almost one daredevil move too many) - they never manage to shoot down the craft he’s piloting with steady hands, and he gets there and drags them up from between the bloodied dunes. Somehow Holland’s managed to patch Dex up, he’s nearly lost his leg and hit his head harshly, while Lyle’s covered in scrapes and bruises. He seeks Mitch among the dunes and upturned metal and wires - but Holland catches his gaze, shaking is head mutely (a gash on his forehead, blood dripping into his eyes) - _It’s too late now._

* * *

It is a miracle in itself that they make it back to base. By the time they get there, Holland has lost unconsciousness and Dex lies still and slack but breathing. As the medics pull them away John’s got not chance to say anything or make a move, and then they drag him before the General who is mighty pissed off (and has never liked him to begin with) and John knows he can’t charm his way out of this one.

John wonders why they don’t discharge him all at once though, when the court martial comes. Instead (there’s no praise, nothing of that sort, and never a promotion) but instead of being ripped from the sky, he’s demoted to Lieutenant, years of struggle pushed under the carpet, and he’s returned to base with the warning of _one more time and you’ll be discharged for good._

It might be meant to be a blessing. Meant to give him a second chance.

And yet. He’s got a sense it didn’t have to end this end, but he’s just wistfully thinking and maybe this way is better because he can think of a hundred other scenarios that could have occurred, and in most of them there’s a lot more blood and screams (all in vain) and cold nights, and in few of those could-have-beens did they all survive and all went well and nothing was lost.

Mitch is dead. He _tried_ (never leave anyone behind, never leave, never). But Dex and Lyle are still alive. Maybe that’s why he’s not discharged. He’s saved lives that day, if too few, far too few amongst the numbers piling up around them. Maybe he isn’t the most obedient soldier around but he’s a goddamn good pilot and Lyle insists that they need him and maybe that’s why they keep him around, because he can fly and nothing’s fair in war. That he’s somehow making a difference. That maybe that is it. That there are second chances. John just chuckles without humour; _yeah well, maybe (I don’t think so)_ but he’s going to take all risks he can possibly to keep flying.

* * *

(He never signed up to make war, to hold a gun, to taste the blood. He just needed to fly.)

* * *

In this universe, Holland doesn’t bleed out in the desert. John doesn’t cradle his cold body for two unforgiving nights. There are no secrets shared, whispered last broken words that no one else will hear and none but him will remember. None of this occurs, and this is the beginning of the end (but John doesn’t know until it’s too late).

* * *

With disdainful frowns thrust at his back, John finds himself with a new special ops team with no faces he recognize and, god, he misses Lyle and his dry humour and the trust of the alpha covering his back. They shared a wavelength (even if they shared nothing else). Now, there is nothing he dares sharing with these men and women - sure, they’re good people, he doesn’t doubt that. Mostly, at least. But they’re alpha and they can never know him (just like he never truly could let Lyle know him but at least - sometimes - sometimes he could _imagine_ ...)

* * *

He goes through suppressants at a frightening pace. He’s been doing this long enough to know how to smuggle them onto base and no one knows and he’s anonymous where he gets them. They’re not exactly legal (too strong and the government isn’t fond of that, because letting omegas have too much control of their own bodies means that they somehow - though John thinks the bastards are arrogant idiots thinking that - somehow believe they’re a danger, that they don’t deserve to break free from leashes) and they eat up most of his paycheck but a man’s got to survive.

Sometimes at night though he thinks of stopping taking them altogether (even if that is just an impossible daydream, because then he’d be chained down to the earth forever and there’d be no way back up).

* * *

He hasn’t spoken with his brother for years. There are almost never any phone calls. But there’s a letter, once, curt and surprised and there’s a photo of Dave’s wife ( _I know you would not come to the wedding,_ the message reads; _it was a beautiful day_ ) and they’re smiling through the lens blankly at him.

He has nothing to return. It doesn’t matter. He doubts Dave cares - that their father cares - that Dave’s wife even knows he exists. He looks at the photo, at their smiles, clenching the picture tightly his chest compressing because he knows he’ll never feature in a similar image and he must accept that, it mustn’t matter, he must let any such dream go. He should have let it go years ago and never thought of it again. But.

John is a shadow, and as that he can at least _exist._

* * *

He and Lyle don’t go off duty at the same hours, at the same days. John considers writing a message. Just a couple of words, _How’re you doing buddy?_ and asking how Dex is recovering, if he’ll ever start walking again because he’s pretty sure Lyle would know that. Holland always befriended people. He was always concerned about the guys he worked with. Always grinning and cracking jokes even at the darkest hours.

John wonders, briefly, why Lyle hasn’t ever talked about mates or girl- or boyfriends off the base. Because he ought to have one, he’s outgoing and smart and alpha, and it’s just what anyone would expect. But there’s been not a single word uttered. Not any suggestion.

(Just this murmur one night; they’d returned from a successful op though it was a narrow escape, that one, and were hitting the showers to get rid of the dust and smell of ammo (though it would always linger). And John had always hated the showers because then there was always a risk, always a risk of slipping the truth even if no one could see it from the outside and he _looks_ just like an ordinary beta, the suppressants hiding any possible scent, and none of the guys had a clue. No one had a clue. But he could make himself relax a little around Lyle so unlike among the other guys (which was so dangerous, so dangerous and oh so wonderful and sometimes he wanted to scream the truth to the world and stop hiding). And he’d felt Lyle’s eyes on him again like it sometimes happened (even if rarely), lingering a little too long, though neither of them would ever speak of it.

John wouldn’t dare answer, and was glad Holland never voiced any questions. But that night - a hand on his elbow, briefly, warm and close, an oddly voiced concern; _Hey Shep,_ Lyle had started but John couldn’t risk it, could just back off and shrug and say that _All’s OK._

All’s OK.

For a moment they could both believe that.)

* * *

Lyle doesn’t tell him. But maybe he knows.

He did disappear from the grid for a time there, five years ago, to ride out heat in silence. And maybe, he knew. Suspected. Tried to follow. John doesn’t know. He’s almost afraid of ever finding the answer.

* * *

He’s thirty-four years old and he hasn’t heard his brother’s voice for over eight years (a quick call, before they’d become utterly estranged, before John was forgotten. Dave hadn’t mentioned the war-zones or revealed John’s lies; but the pleasantries had been false and they had ended up shouting and there had been a cold desolate silence following, in which was written _I just don’t know you anymore._ And then they’d hung up.)

* * *

Lyle Holland doesn’t die in Afghanistan.

Miles and miles away, on another continent filled with ice and expectations, a General that John has never met and will never know is being flown across the vast expanses of white toward the outpost hidden there from too-curious eyes. And deep below where the sunlight cannot reach stands an alien Chair that he will never touch; there is a man sitting in it now, clenching the armrests in terror, eyes tightly shut, as an otherworldly drone wildly seeks to bring down the solitary helicopter.

There is a stranger behind the controls. They react half a second too late.

Stuck in the Middle East busy trying to survive, John never hears the explosion.

* * *

Eventually he gets a chance to meet up with the alpha again. No amount of hours and days and months could make John forget the man’s scent and warm presence. It is a curse and a comfort both, one he doesn’t want and severely needs anyway and he wishes, _wishes_ he could tell the truth but the cost would probably much more severe than being busted down a couple of ranks.

They would keep him from flying.

There’s a scar on Lyle’s upper arm that wasn’t there before, from an op John wasn’t there for; a bullet in the dark of night. But he survived, and John’s alive too carrying bruises under his skin that will never truly heal. But for the first time in weeks he manages to let out a genuine laugh and there’s a hand patting his back in greeting and it’s almost like old times. Almost like before. Lyle’s cursing John’s bad luck, pityingly almost - _We could use you to pilot us out of some of those scrapes, Shep._

And John can only say (tiredly, regretfully) - _Yeah._  

He misses the rest of the guys too with sudden clarity.

* * *

Two weeks later, Dex is reported KIA. He hears the news from Lyle many, too many, hours later and the alpha’s voice is sober and sullen. There’s nothing left of their team now; just scattered pieces, a body nowhere to be found.

In the face of relocation Lyle manages to get hold of him just before being shipped off elsewhere and they get their hands on some cheep beer with a foreign name (Lyle’s always been good at keeping the right contacts) and a movie no one remembers the title of, and it’s none of it is that good really but it’s a distraction; it’s something, at least. John hasn’t been drunk for a long, long while and it’s almost good and his muscles have rarely lost this much tension even if his chest is heavy by the hollow news. Holland’s shoulder presses into his side and they chuckle at the moving pictures before them and neither of them cries. (They would never cry.) John breathes deeply, to remember - to _remember_. And as the sky is turning toward the light outside the walls, he thinks that now, _soon,_ he could let himself go.

He can trust Lyle.

There is no one else.

* * *

He’s never been good at saying goodbye. In way, that is the relief with Mitch and Dex. It was sudden and he wasn’t there to see it. He needn’t say any words, misplaced or otherwise; but now Holland’s here next to him and the alpha turns to him suddenly, sobering up with an expression John has never before seen on his face.

For a second he considers the best routes of escape.

“I know,” Lyle says then, abruptly, not the words John expects to hear. “When you left - five years ago - I know. It took me awhile, but once the pieces were put together... I just figured. I wanted to tell you, before I left. I want you to know that I’ve got your back, that you can trust me.”

In his surprise that is not really true (because he had always hoped and _feared_ ), John stays silent, heartbeats harsh against his ribcage. He could laugh or cry or just shrug it off and try deny it, tell him that _it’s a lie, it’s a lie_ \- but he wants to trust Lyle and he might even dare to. And as he realizes this, John shudders, air leaving his lungs trembling (he’s not sure if he can trust himself though) and he asks simply “Why?” - unable to say anything more because he’s not quite sure what he’s asking. Perhaps _, Why didn’t you out me?_ or _Why didn’t you demand to know right then?_ Or, more likely, the words gnawing at his spine darkly; _Why are you still here with me without pushing me into corners?_

None of this is said aloud. The walls aren’t that thick.

He settles for: “Do you think it matters?”

And Holland doesn’t smile. “I don’t think it matters what I think, Shep.”

* * *

Five years.

Five long fucking years Lyle has known and never said and now they may not meet again, and apparently that’s what it takes for Lyle to reveal it. For John - he isn’t sure. He’s not sure if he could ever reveal it on his own.

Maybe his father had been right. He is a coward.

* * *

Five years.

John hasn’t dared to address any possibilities before. Until. But. Now. Time. There is no time and all the time in the world. And a world without secrets - the thought is so startling, so wonderful, so dangerous. A world filled with truth. He’ll probably never get there, but to get a _taste_ of it ...

* * *

He hasn’t ever trusted himself. But he can trust Lyle. And Holland says, the words somehow - but not really - a promise; “Look, there’s got to be a way - a way around. I’m going to come back, Shep. And we can make this work.”

There’s a whisper of _I want you to be happy._

* * *

He just doesn’t know how it could ever possibly work out.

Flying makes him happy. There is a freedom in pulling Gs that can be found nowhere else. But that’s not the only sort of happiness in the world, and he knows Lyle means something else as a broad hand settling at his lower back, firmly and tentatively and there are a myriad of questions in his eyes but they aren’t voiced. They could too easily be overheard.

But in this room they are alone and there are no security cameras, and John holds his breath while letting Lyle kiss him.

* * *

He hasn’t let anyone kiss him for years and years and years. He’s almost forgotten how it works. And he can’t at first figure out why his heart’s pounding this way. Why it matters. Why he doesn’t want it to stop.

Why it feels like the world has started its final orbit around the sun.

* * *

The next morning Lyle is gone like a ghost and John doesn’t wave him off. There is only the silent shadow of his scent lingering for a few hours more and it will swiftly fade and be replaced with the sweat and blood of his own. But he will remember and savour it, even if that was just a naive promise that will never work out and they should both know that. No notes were left behind, but putting a hand on his chest, there right above the beating of his heart, John can almost imagine the words engraved there in his flesh: _I’m going to come back._


	2. Chapter 2

There is an infinite number of possible parallel universes. There are those where the people of Earth manage to find the Lost City against all odds, wrecked and weakened and nearly dying.

(There are those where they never get there. There are those were the world begins to fade too early.)

* * *

For the days following, John wonders if it was all a dream and he just imagined it and the kiss was a lie. It isn’s as if he could ask someone either; there is no one to confirm (no one who can ever know). He goes on automatic through his duties that day and the next and the next, and rest at night is pitiful at best. Mostly he dreams. Sometimes they’re dark, carven in molten metal and grey stone, filled with painful words. At other times there are flashlights flickering within them and hands reaching out steadfastly to grab his, and beneath his eyelids he sees the sky open up to something much much larger than the speck of blue that is Earth’s atmosphere.

He wishes to believe it was real.

* * *

His next leave comes months later and he’s drained to the soul, tired and arms heavy and all the words he’s heard from Lyle have been sporadic. They had exchanged no numbers. The alpha had sent a couple of emails, mismatched and short unable to mention anything important because they hardly are private: John hasn’t written much either because he sucks at that kind of thing and what should he say anyway?

There is nothing about kisses or lingering thoughts. Lyle mentions he’s going home soon he hopes and they could meet up, _like old buddies do, yeah?_ Like they do. And he writes that he’s actually managed to survive even without Sheppard to watch his back but no one here knows those particular daredevil moves he did and they’re testing a new craft that’s the sweetest ride Lyle’s had so far and the letter ends with: _You should’ve seen it, Johnny!_

Something in John’s throat burns as he reads it and responds: _Wish I’d been there._

* * *

Maybe it _was_ a dream.

* * *

The states are oddly cold and there are no welcoming arms. Not for him. He rents a room at a motel by the coast that’s decent enough and then goes down to the nearby beach because he’s always liked the ocean (there are no waters in the desert), the water lapping around his toes; there are some pretty nice waves there (he ought to return tomorrow with a board). He should be rather happy, he supposes; he’s got a breather and no heavier scars causing him to limp and he’s alive. The dog tags burn icily against his skin.

Here he can be anonymous. Anonymity is good.

He finds himself drunk that night, lying on an empty bed staring at the walls. Considering for a moment to quit the pills and give in again like - like that time. Even if it hurt, hurt so badly, there had been relief also and afterward he’d been able to think straight again. The afterglow, embers settling, had been a bit like the aftermath of pulling Gs.

* * *

Somehow Lyle finds his number. The call comes near midnight but John’s awake and hesitates to answer first, but then he hears that voice, a bit raspy, that he’s not dreamed of for days and a grin unwillingly spreads across his face. The alpha is stateside and now John doesn’t hesitate, a flame rising in his chest ever-hopeful, and he hears Lyle laugh warmly on the other side as they trade addresses.

There is a promise there.

A mixture of hope and fire rises and falls like a pulse inside him.

* * *

There are wormholes through space, leading from planet to planet, from star to star, from one galaxy to another.

Against all odds (shock still ringing through the Cheyenne Mountain at the news of the General’s sudden death), an expedition has managed to get there, so far away from home, and a wormhole shuts down behind them in the gloom as they find themselves in a world no living being has set foot on for ten millennia. It was a gamble of the highest sort and a wonder they even managed to get there, without any strong carriers of the important alien gene necessary for this mission, without the support of a man who never lived to learn that they found the Ancient city.

Asleep in a coastal town without much significance, John has no idea of any of this.

* * *

The airport is busy and no one pays much heed to two soldiers greeting each other. Lyle’s wearing casuals but his dog tags peek out beneath his shirt and John feels out of place in his newly bought leather jacket. The alpha looks much the same as last year, last they saw each other so many months ago, except there are new lines on his brow and crinkles around his eyes, not all from smiling, and there’s a bruise on his temple that looks fairly new.

 _Last op; took an unexpected tumble,_ Lyle explains with a shrug when they meet, sharing a half-awkward embrace, John’s back unwillingly tensing like a bowstring when the alpha slings a familiar arm around his shoulders. For a millisecond a stubbled cheek and a pair of dry lips press against his earlobe, so swiftly it’s over at once and they pull back but there’s a lingering hand on his arm.

And he feels surprisingly safe.

(Lyle’s scent is just as he remembered it. Perhaps, now, laden with more hardship.)

* * *

It’s just like old times as they walk through town (nondescript enough, common enough, a place to hide), past the rushing waters, toward the motel. To the world John Sheppard is just the average beta, and if that had been true no one would care for it if an alpha walked at his side, shoulder to shoulder.

There’s a woman in her twenties looking bored and unenthusiastic about her post, a beta without a clue (or perhaps hiding like him), behind the desk there; Lyle gets a room two doors away from his but there’d be no eyebrows raised, probably, if he asked to share (but John needs some form of insurance).

* * *

“You’re still taking...” Lyle starts and John nods sharply; “Yeah.”

Maybe. If. If he could. Part of him wants to. Part of him is terrified of the prospect.

“You don’t have to,” Holland murmurs; _you don’t have to lie to me,_ he could mean, or, _you don’t have to keep taking the suppressants with me around,_ or, _you don’t have to do this (we could stop)_. John is uncertain which one he means.

(He could mean: _we can run away_.)

* * *

Three million lightyears away, an Ancient city is slowly drowning. No one on Earth can hear the people’s faint cries; no one here can hear the rush of a wormhole opening to an unknown planet in the Pegasus galaxy where they hope to find shelter. No one can hear the whine of alien crafts overhead and the screams cut-off as people are taken by pale beams of light.

* * *

The kisses are tentative at first and he’s unsure of what to do, but then his hands find places comfortable to rest and Lyle is touching him where no one else ever has and John can’t bring himself to stop him.

There’s some discomfort and pain as they touch and he almost pulls away then, wondering if this was the wrong thing to do, if this isn’t -  
\- and then he dismisses it quickly because now it’s too late anyhow and he can trust Lyle, wants to trust him. Heat coils through him and Holland is gasping above him, the coupling hard and firm and the thrusts steady. But the fingers tracing down his collarbone are surprisingly gentle, coarse from pulling the trigger for so many years, and John finds himself soothed by the rocking movement, this pulse - it’s almost like they are sharing a single set of heartbeats.

* * *

It’s over all too soon. And he promises Holland that it’ll work out and they’ll meet again and there is a future, there is a future for them (this could be real after all). Then he watches the plane take off and returns to counting down the hours. Soon he’ll be back on base, hiding like a shadow again.

Like last time they leave no letters behind.

* * *

(No one knows that this is the second time around and that there’s a time-travelling woman locked in stasis at the heart of the city, waiting to be roused, to tell her story. No one knows that the first time, the first time Lyle Holland died in Afghanistan and John Sheppard was reassigned to McMurdo and the fate of the universe was altered.  
No one knows that this is the second time.)

* * *

Two days before he is to return, he falls ill. Or he thinks he does, at first. It takes a moment for it to sink in. For him to dare think it could be anything else than a badly timed case of flu or something else causing the nausea and the unsteady feeling creeping up on his soul.

In this city where he is nameless he can buy a test at the local pharmacy without any eyes tracking him, and he locks himself in the bathroom of the motel, holding his breath while waiting for the results.

* * *

_If only it was another lie._

* * *

There are clinics to go to anonymously but there is no time, no time to make an appointment and fix this because he knows it’s not that simple and he does not have time. But he knows how it works, how ... That it should work. That there’s a risk he’ll bleed out too but that’s a risk he has to take because what other choice is there?

(He takes the suppressants and day-after pills and doesn’t call Lyle. It doesn’t matter. It was a mistake.

It wouldn’t have worked out.)

* * *

Failsafes enabled, the city rises.

There is no way back home, but they have won time, now. They have won time to seek what is far out there.

* * *

Years and years have passed since last time he cried. He cannot let himself do it now.

He can’t imagine that in less than forty-eight hours he’s got to be ready to face the world again, to see the guys and clap their shoulders and grin and holster a gun, and to greet the brass unquestionably and never doubt and always look ahead stoically. There’s blood on the sheets and he spends the night awake and sick and wishing there was somebody around to talk to.

* * *

Life is much like a dice. Again and again it is set in motion and a random side falls up and sometimes the best side is down. And then, finally, it is a game that ends and the hand that has been casting it grows still.

There is a war slowly rising on the horizon of a star that John has never heard of.


	3. Chapter 3

There is an infinite number of possible parallel universes. In some of them, there are happy endings.

* * *

Their meetings are sporadic at best, planned just days or hours beforehand. There is no one to share news with. It is just _them_ , briefly together and almost whole; and for some time in-between the chaos and blood of battle John finds moments of peace, of security, of what might be the feeling of home.

He doesn’t tell Lyle about the baby that never was. It doesn’t matter now. It could never have been. And the grief and regret festering at the pit of his heart will die, in time, like a fire turns to ashes. It will. One day. It will.

He will learn to let it go.

* * *

For some time, there is happiness to be found and takes as much as he can get, scooping it up eagerly wishing there was somewhere safe to store it, so that he could turn to those deposits when the storms hit. No one is told of their secret - _theirs_ now, not just his; but that is no relief in itself - but he knows that Lyle longs for something different. Something more. For this to end; for them to step out of hiding, to be able to not feel shame.

(They have fought a few times. Muttered coldly and turned backs. But their time together is always brief and they try to savour it as best they can.)

He never lets Lyle touch him while he’s in heat again - not like that time - never again. It’s not the same, but he cannot let it happen again and he tries to make Holland understand the risks. And he can find pleasure in this too. This existence. Even if each sunset threatens to be their last. The world isn’t a fair place and most of the time they are continents apart and John cannot breathe his longing at all, at any time.

(There is no time.)

* * *

Each time they meet they carry new scars.

That year, John loses two of his team and finds himself relocated again and the Colonel in charge of that place dislikes him even more than the first (no doubt knowing his file in and out; the black mark, the court martial).

That year, Lyle gets to test-fly choppers that John only gets to see images if he’s lucky. In July he gets sent a photograph of Holland sitting in the cockpit of something beautiful, so far away, so helplessly _far away_ and still the alpha is smiling at the camera, and his heart stutters with longing and he tries not to think of the picture too much.

* * *

He never forgets the abortion but he learns to push it out of his mind, just like he’s learned to hide. And it’s not ideal but it’s bearable and soon, he hopes (wishing he could know for certain), soon they’ll be reunited and one day in the future there might be a chance. There might be a chance. There might be.

* * *

At one point he finds himself placed in the states and it’s a relief to get out of the desert and the jungle and all other places he’s coated with blood and bullets. In Colorado there’s a cluster of bases; there is one that, oddly enough for an Air Force base, doesn’t have access to an air field and that, unfortunately, is where he’s placed. On the surface there doesn’t seem much to guard other than doors he’s not allowed to enter. There’s a certain level of security clearance necessary but his doesn’t go that deep and there are many levels below he’s sure he’ll never get to see. That doesn’t bother him. Despite the lacking air field there is access to the nearby Peterson base and they have some really nice choppers.

At least here there are no Taliban to maim him down.

There’s quite a lot of chauffeuring he has to do and then among the guys stationed here he gets to hear all strange rumours (’deep space radar telemetry’, _right_ ) and this base is unlike anyone he’s even been at before. On the outside, sure, it seems ordinary enough. But there is something. The secrecy. The operations so deeply under the ground no radar can detect it. There is _something._ All of his instincts are screaming at him that his place isn’t what it appears and normally he’d just ignore that because that usually helps to save his ass but now, now there’s something beckoning him to _listen._

* * *

(Three million lightyears away, a hundred people trapped in an ancient city have found themselves cornered by enemy ships and weapons beyond count and they have no shields to wrap themselves in.)

* * *

Like by the flip of a coin one day mid-October, a Colonel Carter (from very far below, high clearance; John’s never seen her before but heard her name mentioned in hallways) needs piloting someplace dire (details as of why are classified); to Egypt, of all places, and he’s to take them half-way. There’s a doctor of some sort with her, an archaeologist, and John has no idea whatever a man of his profession has to do with NORAD; it makes no sense at all. But it’s not his place to question anything (he’s asked too much in the past and look where it’s got him). There’s some equipment that needs transporting; nothing unusual about that either, only these things are very classified and when he’s finished pre-flight checks and offers helping loading, there’s an exchange of careful looks.

“This is some very fragile and valuable material,” the Colonel starts but John accidentally lays a hand on one of the boxes, which appeared so ordinary, and, before he can pull away, something inside it begins to _glow._

* * *

He hadn’t thought his life could get more fucked up.

Well. There goes that belief down the drain.

* * *

Just two days before that moment, Holland had come to visit, a chance meeting in an alleyway and John is still riding on a high from that night. In the long hours in-between he always begins to doubt and despair and hope but when they’re together, there is a light, and he grasps it tightly refusing to let go and he’s happy in a manner he otherwise rarely is.

The alpha’s gone by the morning, leaving only a lingering soreness and the scent of home behind and John buries his face in the pillow, soaking in the feeling while it lasts.

* * *

At first he considers refusing so sign the confidentiality agreement.

Then, he thinks of what Lyle said, so long ago: _I want you to be happy._ And this just feels like _this is it._ An opportunity. A turning point. A coin landing with the right side up.

He can’t call Lyle to tell him that he’s deep inside Cheyenne Mountain which is filled with people paranoid (and John thinks they should have a sign at the front door stating _This is a workplace for crazy folks, please proceed with caution_ ). And they’re testing his DNA for some mutant gene and apparently there is space travel going on here, right now, while wars are being fought across the globe.

He tries not to freak out (too much).

* * *

Apparently, there was a General, nearly a year ago - there is sorrow in people’s eyes as they speak of him with lowered voices - a good man that was killed above Antarctica when they were trying to find their way to another galaxy. And now they are building _spaceships_ that can travel that distance now and Jackson, the archaeologist, is on his way to Egypt now with another pilot because something important has been found there apparently, a thing of power; but John can’t manage to catch all the details. His breath is caught by the fact that right now there’s a ship in orbit around the Earth and soon it will be flying through the void and it isn’t the only ship they’ve got. They have the means to reach the stars and he’s _never_ _even_ _known._

There are wars happening out there right now. (So many places and names and coordinates; there are mentions of Ori and Goa’uld things and higher planes of existence - no wonder this is so fucking classified. There’d be riots in the streets if word got out. There’s be total panic.) Despite that, the people in the SGC are oddly calm, collected, as if this is nothing abnormal. As if it’s acceptable, bearable. And he’s seen a lot of strange things in his life but _this,_ this is lightyears beyond weird.

General O’Neill had had a strong gene (Ancient Technology-something; from what John understands it’s astoundingly rare and therefore they don’t want to let him go. Like he’s some sort of experimental guinea pig, and the thought doesn’t settle well with him) just like him. And, god, he’s part _alien_ and John just has to stop and struggle to breathe for a moment because somewhere far back there were Ancients among his ancestors, one of a people that seeded life across galaxies and built cities that they say can _fly_ and now, now they want him to go there. To walk through a Stargate without any guarantees of success or safety or return. To the place where one of his ancestors came from (to a sky he wouldn’t be able to recognize).

Part of him is so, so tempted.

Part of him is terrified.

* * *

The Stargate is wondrous and intimidating and beyond it, the omega thinks, there could be a way out.

_(We could run away.)_

* * *

The far-away lost city is called Atlantis. The name tastes good on his tongue. Atlantis.

The expedition sent there has survived long enough to send a message back, a burst of incomprehensible amounts of data. It’s from that one desperate message that the SGC have learned about the newest (or perhaps oldest) enemy of mankind.

The word _wraith_ doesn’t sound terribly intimidating at first. Like they are some form of ghosts with transparent hands. But there are pictures sent of withered husks, and information on their ships and weapons and numbers, and General Hammond is deadly serious when presenting the scenario to Sheppard and the other newcomers who are wide-eyed (some better than others at hiding it) and frozen under the General’s scrutinizing gaze. John refuses to flinch, knowing he’s got to face this with calm clarity if he’s going to survive it.

Just another assignment. Just another war.

* * *

(But the dizzying thought of flying among the _stars_ ...)

* * *

He _has_ to call Lyle. Not that there is much to tell him; he’s pretty sure they are surveying every word. But he has to ask if it is worth it. Know. Make certain.

He could return. There is no certainty of death (just almost). There is a siege out there and people are dying and every single one of his instincts are telling him to help. But - Lyle. Earth. _Home_ (or what it has become). Then, after this battle, they could meet again and he can’t tell Lyle the details of course, being the most classified base he’s ever been allowed to enter - but he could tell him some things. And Lyle would understand or at least pretend to.

Despite the craziness of the place, John’s got a feeling he could belong here. He hasn’t belonged anywhere before.

* * *

There is no one answering the signal. He tries, again. Again. Lyle must be on duty.

He will try again later.

* * *

(Not their last meeting but almost, Lyle had briefly mentioned his will and changing it and John had just shook his head, no, no way, he doesn’t want that or need that and it’s not - But Lyle had cut him off with a kiss. And that time John had wished he had told him _everything._

But silence lay between them as they curled up together on the bumpy hotel mattress and maybe it was really lovemaking. It had felt good, was over too fast; and, his insides fervently burning, John had distantly hoped, _hoped_ that maybe this time, this time it could work out.)

* * *

With no other family alive, Holland had written him off as next of kin.

It’s five in the morning when the call reaches the Mountain.

* * *

Through his shock, rigid and icy and burning, wrenching through his guts, John can’t cry. The walls are thicker here though and if not for sharing bunks with two strangers who would hear him, he could almost risk a scream into the night to pull out his sorrow with a fierce tug and let it go.


	4. Chapter 4

There is an infinite number of possible parallel universes. In one of them, Lyle Holland doesn’t die in Afghanistan but John Sheppard makes it to Atlantis anyway.

* * *

(There are other things too that he could get from where he buys the suppressants. It would be easy, too easy to get his hands on something. A bottle of sleeping pills. He has a knife resting against his hip since he finished survival training and it would be so easy, too easy, and he knows the layout of his arteries.

Who would notice? Who would even care?)

* * *

The ATA-gene, Colonel Carter explains, is what allows people to use the technology of the Ancients. And Atlantis is riddled with that and there should be a Chair, the controls of a weapon more deadly than he could ever imagine; a means of defence that could save hundreds of lives. And there is no one else with a gene as strong as his. With the same kind of chance of success.

Success.

Maybe then. After. Hundreds of lives. He failed to save Mitch. He failed to save Dex. He failed so many and the numbers are yet piling up but a hundred lives - _and then the Earth;_ the Wraith could get to Earth and wipe out millions and they cannot let that happen.

 _Please, consider it, Lieutenant,_ the Colonel says (pleads). _Consider it._

Then. After. He could let go. When it’s been done; an army stopped (aliens. aliens out there seeking to kill everything living on his homeplanet) - then, he can rest. (He can rest to never wake up.) Then.

He failed to save Lyle. If he could succeed this, if he could -

* * *

The first wave of soldiers led by Colonel Everett is to leave in a few hours and his gear is ready and weapons loaded, but John’s not ready. He’s not ready for anything. The place where his soul used to be is a crumbled mass of memory.

* * *

There is no noise or light in a wormhole. All sensations within it are illusionary and false. Yet, it is a comfort. For a millisecond he is ripped apart into bare molecules before he’s put together again at the other side.

(If only he could pull apart his soul and rearrange it. If he could. _If_.)

* * *

Stepping from one world of chaos into another, he crosses the event horizon and the walls suddenly are no longer grey and imposing but tall and old, and the multi-colored windows let in light from a foreign sun. It is fresh and new and strange and he stands still for a moment, shuddering, _this is it_ \- there is no return. But orders are being shouted all around him and the mass of soldiers are moving and the Colonel is facing a thin woman with brown hair and wide surprised eyes.

He cannot linger in stillness. He hefts his P90, helping someone, unable to recall his name at the moment (he hasn’t spoken with anyone more than absolutely necessary for days), with getting another piece of warmachinery through the Stargate. Just another solider among so many others. No one here knows his name, will care to remember it and it is a painful relief to know that.

There is shock and surprise and a voice calling: “You got our message!”

And the Colonel says, looking proud and pleased; “We did, doctor. The Daedalus is on it’s way and with the ZPM to boost her engines they will be here within four days. That is how long we must hold this base.”

* * *

Apparently there was a storm, once, months ago, and other accidents that has causes the city to almost fall. Many parts of the city are still damaged or partially flooded and there is so much they have not been able to salvage or explore. It is a dangerous place. No one has been allowed to venture too far from the central spire, where the Stargate is located.

There’s a balcony right outside the control room and the view is gorgeous, the sea endless, the sky without limit. This kind of sky, John thinks, he would have liked to fly if there had been a chance. If there’d been time. If this sky had been given to him back on Earth while Lyle still existed.

 _Lyle,_ he thinks helplessly, chest twisting cruelly like there’s a knife within it seeking escape, and he stares at the sky - far up there, there are enemy ships approaching. _If you could see this! If you could’ve seen this ...!_

* * *

In charge is a woman, alpha, Dr Weir - but not anymore because the Colonel pushes her aside with ease. Too much ease, really, because John doesn’t know her but she’s led an expedition to an alien galaxy and nearly a year later they’re still holding together and that takes more than just guts. Surrounding her are others, whose names he are uncertain of; an alpha scientist in blue jacket, his voice loud as he speaks animatedly with his hands. His accent is Canadian.

There was a Colonel Sumner once, he’s been told. Not anymore. There were natives of another planet (Athosians; John hears the word from somewhere in the stream of information) captured and he along with them and they lost two other men that day, and they found no way to rescue them until it was all too late. The Athosians had fled the Ancestral city as soon as they could, their home lost, their families shattered.

(In this time John will never learn of her existence, but there was a woman named Teyla who died that day with a brief surge of hope in her heart that the Earthlings were Ancestors returned and that the end of the Wraith was near.)

Since then, the military CO has been the highest ranking Major, a guy named Lorne. With him now is a Lieutenant named Ford and he’s just twenty-five years old (and John thinks he might be terrified as well), backing him up, but that helps nothing in the face of Colonel Everett, who wasn’t fond to learn through the databurst they received of Sumner’s death. A Major oughtn’t lead a base of this size, not in this time of crisis (not ever). Not a million lightyears away from Earth. What does it matter to him that there are yet survivors in Atlantis despite the terribly unfair odds?

* * *

Vaguely John realizes, once he’s on the other side of the threshold, that the city around him is humming gently at the back of his head like in welcome. Nobody else seem to notice this and he doesn’t bring it up. It might not be important.

Most of the time he goes on moving like a machine anyway, trying not to think or feel too much because if he does - when he does - everything’s going to fall apart. First he’s going to try saving these strangers.

Rest can come afterwards.

* * *

“Four. Days. Four days? That isn’t possible, Colonel, not in a million years. We haven’t got the firepower; there’s a Chair but we have no means to power it and no one who can properly operate it anyhow because last time that happened people _died_ \- the _wrong_ people,” the loud scientist cuts in, glaring at the Colonel like he’s a student answering a blatant question wrongly, and John lingers nearby to follow the conversation because he knows what the Colonel is going to say next.

He’s here because of that gene, that is why they need him - with his black mark, they’d never let him in on this if it weren’t for an unexpected ancestor far beyond memory. He has seen imagery of the Chair in Antarctica and Colonel Carter, back on Earth, had pulled him aside to instruct him on how it should be operated though she never has herself and he had never seen it for real, and there were chances they wouldn’t find Atlantis still standing. But there should be an alien Chair here ( _the most powerful weapon known to humankind,_ Carter had reminded him, eyes sharp) for him to at least try to operate.

(General O’Neill had been able to use the one in Antarctica. He had saved Earth with it once. John isn’t sure if he could ever do the same, defend a planet with an object he couldn’t have made up with his subconscious. But he’d be damned if he doesn’t try.)

“No, Dr McKay.” So that’s his name. “We have a naquadah generator with us that should do the trick. Lieutenant Sheppard!”

Obediently, like a good soldier, John snaps into attention even though his stomach lurches, and McKay glances at him for a moment without comprehension. “Dr McKay, I want you to show the Lieutenant to the Control Chair immediately,” the Colonel orders with no room left over for questions.

Then, the alpha’s eyes light up, understanding dawning, a a wave of surprise and relief crashing through the man. It looks as if he hasn’t slept in days, bruises under his eyes (not wholly unlike a solider at the front lines).

* * *

A hundred lives.

It could be worth it.

(He’s tired, so _tired,_ his bones heavy like he’s an old bird that’s lost the ability to fly, something with broken wings.)

* * *

Lyle has been dead for a hundred hours.

* * *

The corridors glimmer to light as he passes through them, Dr McKay on one side and a group of strangers on the other - scientists, footsoldiers, a generator made of a material that John didn’t know existed until a few weeks ago. There is an apprehensive tension wrapped like a sheet around them all, and no one speaks, except McKay who is conversing intently with a wiry man with wild hair and glasses and a Czech accent, about power outlets and drone storage. There are no hands patting his back, no grins of _Good luck._

(He’s relieved there aren’t any.)

The Chair sits there dark and quiet (not like in the footage from Antarctica he’d gotten to glimpse). Hooking it up to the generator isn’t easy and there are issues and nearly two hours passes by before anything occurs, but he’s not allowed to leave so he lingers quietly in a corner and as long as he’s silent, no one approaches, no one questions. He pretends to be guarding the door.

McKay gestures him to sit. He does.

Around him, the city is _alive._

* * *

Three hive ships bearing down on them, he thinks of Lyle and the baby that never was and closes his eyes, feeling the surge of power through the circuits of the city like it was his own blood pumping adrenaline. There, he sees them. The sky is dark but for the intense bursts of lighting from guns trying to bring the smaller Wraith ships down. There are crashes far-off and he can sense the city burning. There are no shields.

Lyle’s face burning in his irises, he lets go of a hundred drones.

* * *

He doesn’t count the hours.

He doesn’t know when it’s over.

* * *

At some point, he’s wrenched off the Chair and a canteen of water pushed into his hands. Voices echo across the radio, frequency broken with cries of pain: _They’re in the city! we’re surrounded! help us!_

From somewhere at the back of his head he recalls McKay being nearby most of the time, checking the generator and nervously eating a powerbar and murmuring under his breath, _Please I don’t want to die, I haven’t even won my Nobel yet. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to -_

* * *

The first attack wave is barely over before the second one begins.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (The character [Colonel Sobel](http://stargate.wikia.com/wiki/Sobel) appears in _The Deadalus Variations_.)

There is an infinite number of possible parallel universes. In a few, things go as planned, in the end (when hope nearly is lost).

* * *

The sky trembles as John feels the nuke explode, the Gateship disintegrating. Then he’s back in the Chair whole on the outside even if he never will be on the inside, and he is steering the second Gateship up through the mass of Darts and gunfire and there is silence now, no one daring to speak, to disturb his mind.

 _Lyle._  He whispers the name to the vacuum no one can touch, sensing the nuke’s countdown, the Gateship entering the belly of the enemy vessel.

The second hive goes down.

But there’s a third up there, and that is when there is a cry of joy and shock over the radio: _The Daedalus is here! They’ve arrived!_

And a hand lands on his arm so suddenly that he jerks, someone trying to make him open his eyes and he blinks up blearily at an unfamiliar face - _It’s over, Lieutenant,_ says a voice distantly; _you can step down._

* * *

He never made any promises to linger.

It’s over now.

* * *

Maybe he should send word back to his brother. Nothing fancy, just - _I was happy, Dave. I found happiness. And I’m sorry. (PS. Tell dad he’s an asshole. But maybe he was right, after all.)_ \- because with the Zero Point Module the ship has brought to the city has enabled them to fake a self-destruct and hide and raise a shield. And soon they will be able to dial back to Earth. Home. But it is not his home and John doesn’t want to go back. There is nothing there waiting for him.

There are piers so distant and tall, the waters unexplored. No one should be able to find his body.

(He doesn’t want anyone to find it.)

* * *

The cleaning up is a mess and they want him to attend a meeting with Dr Weir and Colonel Sobel from the Daedalus. Everett is barely alive, fed on by a Wraith like he’s a thing, a piece of livestock, an _animal,_ and his eyes are all watered out now.

They know he sat in that Chair. And for several hours John has nowhere to run. He remembers Sobel vaguely; he saw her in the SGC before stepping through the Stargate and now she’s busily delegating duties to the marines and the civilians who have volunteered to help, called back from the alpha site. Feeling utterly boneless, John sinks down onto a chair in the conference room (the walls folding on themselves to create doors), and he lets people’s voices wash over him like water in a stream.

Why can’t they just let him walk away?

(The ocean is connected to the sky, in a way. Wide and blue and deep - there is a bottom very far away, and by the time he reaches he will not be breathing.)

* * *

When she’d urged him to come on the helpless mission, he’d told Colonel Carter, _Sure. I’ll consider it._

Lyle had been dead for fifteen hours.

He hadn’t told her anything about returning or asked about paychecks or inquired about insurances. He’d let the wormhole carry him away, almost expecting not to come out on the other side.

* * *

He tries to find a place to flee. A time to go.

But Dr McKay unexpectedly runs into him in a corridor stacked with supplies in random heaps, weapons and food and necessities, and the alpha pauses probably trying to figure out how he recognizes him. Then, clearing his throat, the man says, “So. That wasn’t too bad work there. With the Chair, I mean.”

He shrugs. He doesn’t need the man to pay him any heed or memory. “It was nothing. People would’ve died if I hadn’t.” People have died anyway. People always die. There are always those he fail to save, to bring back - _never leave anyone behind._

( _You’re always so stubborn, you know, Shep,_ Lyle had reminded him so many times. Never leave anyone behind. But someone was always left behind.)

The man hasn’t stopped talking. “... and honestly I was unsure it if would work and we were lucky there were so many drones at hand. But they said you had never used the Chair before, not even the one in Antarctica and to be quite honest -”

“It was _nothing,_ Dr McKay,” John says again, emphasizing the finality of the words to make him just leave it. His hands aren’t steady but they’re clenched around his P90 tightly and the alpha doesn’t seem to notice. And Lyle’s words are echoing in his head, emptily; _I want you to be happy._

Eventually the man lets him step past him and he doesn’t glance back and pretends not to hear any words called after him. The alpha’s too curious. It would be better for them both if he’d just leave it be.

(Perhaps coming here was a bad idea.)

* * *

He’s taken a look at the systems in the control room and knows they can track lifesigns from there. They might see his white dot all alone, breaking free from the inhabited areas of the city to seek lonely places where there’s a risk of Wraith lingering. But it’s just one dot among hundreds.

It will not be noticed.

* * *

There’s a balcony by the east pier that is lonely and good and the walls behind it are windowless. The wind is cold and harsh on his face now they have lowered the shield, the Wraith ships gone since hours ago; he can see smoke rising like dark plumes from places where darts have crashed. At this distance, most of the city looks like pretty glittering pillars of alien steel, glinting in the sunlight, and it is a beautiful last sight, not the unforgiving sand of a desert.

Then, a little surprised to find his eyes burning and something wet and salty reaching his lips, his cheeks smeared with tears, he climbs to the top of the railing. Far, far below is an ending waiting for him.

(A huge part of him is already dead.)

 _Lyle,_ he thinks. He’s got no ashes, no dog tags to cling to. But there’s a photo and he could never let it go and he picks it up now from inside his vest where it was hidden, staring at the alpha’s smile. His scent. He can still remember. The baby that never was. The mistake. _Lyle, I’m sorry. But you did make me happy._

Without taking another breath, he steps over the edge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _(This is continued in[And Then, Infinity](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1357705). This isn't the end, I promise.)_


End file.
